The Firm, Cold Earth

Hard spring wheat planted in the firm, cold earth.

Sprouts flourish under equinox’s sun kisses.

Proud and green, finding their sense of worth.

Solstice comes bringing warm summer wishes,

Till autumn falls, and reality’s sun sets.

Threshing begins across the golden sea.

Mature stalks lay fallow; lonely threats

Echoed through time, hidden by childlike glee,

Beckon what is to become of thee:

Just a little more time, they say,

To dance in the wind, keep company.

But soon they answer the call of end’s day.

We were told of the cycle, yet stood

Unbelieving, not carrying a thought

Of time to come and what would

Inevitably be our final plot.